Along Came Zepp
by Marianna Morgan
Summary: AU tag to 6x22 – Seizure Sam, Big Brother Dean, Awesome Bobby – Maybe Bobby had been right; maybe this dog was exactly what they needed.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary**: AU tag to 6x22 – Seizure Sam, Big Brother Dean, Awesome Bobby – Maybe Bobby had been right; maybe this dog was exactly what they needed.

**Disclaimer**: Not mine.

**Warnings**: Usual language and spoilers for Season Six finale.

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><p><em><strong>I do not like dogs, because they bark when there is no occasion for it; but I have liked this one from the beginning...because he never barks except when there is occasion... ~ Mark Twain, "The Death of Jean"<strong>_

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><p>"House rules for you are the same as for the boys. And I only got three of 'em, so listen up..." Bobby was saying when Dean opened the upstairs bathroom door, causing the oldest Winchester to freeze in the doorway as wisps of steam swirled in the rush of air.<p>

"Rule #1..."

Dean narrowed his eyes. Who the hell was Bobby talking to downstairs? Had someone arrived while he was in the shower, or was Bobby on the phone...or what?

"...come when you're called."

Dean switched off the bathroom light and entered his and Sam's room; glancing at his brother – who seemed to be sleeping peacefully – before quickly stuffing his kit and wadded sleep clothes into the top drawer of the dresser and padding down the hall in his sock-clad feet.

"Or at least acknowledge me in some way so I know you're not sick, injured, or dead," Bobby clarified, his voice clearer now that Dean was standing at the top of the stairs. And since Bobby was not talking as loudly as he usually did when he was on the phone, it was a safe bet that whoever the older hunter was conversing with was in the kitchen with him.

There was the creak of a cabinet door opening followed by the hollow scuffing of a mug being removed from the shelf before the cabinet banged shut.

Dean tilted his head. Only one mug? Was Bobby not feeling hospitable this morning, or did he already know that whoever he was talking to did not drink coffee?

"Rule #2..."

The coffee pot clanked against the side of the mug, providing the perfect cover for Dean to ease down the top two steps, which always groaned like a bitch no matter how light-footed he tried to be.

"...don't be touchin' my stuff unless you ask first or I give you permission. What looks like a mess is actually a highly specialized filing system, and I don't need you 'helping me' by screwing it up."

Dean quirked a smile as he tiptoed down three more steps, remembering the day – at least five or six years ago – he and Sam surprised Bobby by cleaning the study and alphabetizing all the hunter's old books. Bobby had bitched at them for days afterwards and apparently even now was still not completely over it.

Dean shook his head good-naturedly and then felt his smile waver at the reality of what was happening. Because if whoever Bobby was talking to was getting a rundown of the house rules, that meant he – possibly _she_, but probably not – was going to be staying more than just a couple of days. And even though it was Bobby's house, it had become Dean and Sam's home – especially over the past few months – and Dean did not want to share it with an outsider.

If he was honest with himself, Dean did not want to share Bobby, either. And he sure as hell was not sharing Sam. Until Dean knew more about whoever this was, he – or she – would be lucky to even catch a glimpse of his brother, much less be in the same room with Sam.

Dean felt a sudden surge of protectiveness mixed with a twinge of anger and betrayal. How could Bobby even _think_ about bringing in somebody new to the household now? Three weeks post Operation Cluster Fuck – Sam's wall crumbling, purgatory being opened, and Cas becoming a self-proclaimed god – and Bobby thought it was a good idea to invite a houseguest? Seriously?

"Rule #3..."

Dean blinked at the sound of Bobby's voice and descended two more steps; now more than halfway down the stairs and resisting the urge to barge into the kitchen; to demand just what the fuck was going on and why was he not consulted before bringing in a stranger?

Dean closed his eyes briefly, willing himself to calm down.

"...and this one doesn't apply to you. But neither did Rule #2, so I'm still gonna say it."

Dean opened his eyes and glared. Who the hell was this person that he – or more logically now, _she_ – was already receiving special treatment? What about the special treatment Sam required these days? Had Bobby suddenly forgotten that Sam was still fragile? That the one doctor they had taken Sam to – only because the man was a friend of a hunter – had been stumped, had been literally speechless about how to help Sam? Did Bobby fail to remember that all the medications Sam had tried over the past few weeks had been useless? That the kid still suffered at least three or four seizures a day, plus had to endure nightmares, flashbacks, and personality shifts?

Dean clenched his jaw, feeling more pissed by the second. Because _Sam_ was his priority; always had been; always would be, especially now. And he thought that Bobby had not only understood but had also agreed; that the older hunter had been onboard with retiring from hunting – at least for now – so they could focus on Sam.

But apparently Bobby had wanted to retire from hunting so he could focus on opening a fucking boarding house.

"Rule #3 is that you replace the toilet paper roll when it runs out," Bobby was telling whoever was with him in the kitchen as Dean went down three more steps. "It takes less than five seconds and keeps me from ending up in a tricky situation."

Hearing movement back up in their room, Dean glanced over his shoulder; attention instantly refocused as he listened intently for any warning that Sam was doing anything more than just rolling over in bed. When several seconds passed and there was no other noise, Dean slowly exhaled and turned his attention back downstairs.

"But like I said..." Bobby reminded whoever he was talking to. "...that doesn't apply to you."

Dean rolled his eyes. Of course it didn't. And neither did Rule #2.

There was silence, and Dean shook his head. He hated this new person already. If this pampered asshole could not be bothered to ask permission to use Bobby's stuff or to replace a roll of fucking toilet paper, what else could he – or she – not be bothered with? If Sam was having a seizure, could he – or she or whoever the fuck this person was – be bothered to tell them, to come get Dean? Not that this person would be allowed around Sam, but still...

Bobby had stopped talking, and Dean's foot hovered over the last step as he listened intently, trying to hear the movement of another person in the kitchen. But there was nothing to be heard besides the familiar shuffle of Bobby as he puttered around the small space between the table, the fridge, and the counter.

Which meant...what?

Dean shrugged – because experience had taught him that silence was easy to misjudge – and then cleared the bottom step, fully prepared to make his grand entrance into the kitchen when Bobby's voice stopped him for the second time that morning.

"So, those are my rules," and the way his lips smacked before he said the words indicated that Bobby had just sipped his coffee. "But I can assure you Dean's list will be much longer and a bigger pain in your ass than mine."

Dean arched an eyebrow, crossing from the stairs to the hallway; his socks allowing a silent approach.

"And from me to you..." Bobby confided, his voice becoming quieter. "...the best tip I can give is to stay on Dean's good side, at least until he gets to know you a little better."

Dean nodded – it was good advice – and stood just beyond the edge of the kitchen's doorway.

"Dean's the one to please here, not me," Bobby reminded, a chair scraping across the wooden floor as he pulled it back from the table and sat. "I'm already on your side. And Sam's gonna love you, 'cause that's just how he is. Even after all that's happened, that kid has still got the biggest heart of anyone you will ever meet."

Bobby paused, and Dean felt warmth spread through his chest at the enormity of that truth. Because the older hunter was right; even after everything, most of the time, Sam was still Sammy – _his_ Sammy – and whoever Bobby was talking to had better not forget it.

As if picking up on Dean's thought, Bobby suddenly added, "And I know you've got a job to do and have been trained to do it. But for god's sake, don't do anything Dean could perceive as potentially threatening to Sam. Because like I already told you on the ride over, Dean's a little overprotective these days, and Sam's..."

Bobby sighed, seemingly at a loss for how to describe the youngest Winchester, even as Dean's mind simultaneously answered _mine_ and _off limits_.

Dean held his breath, waiting to see how Bobby would finish his statement – _if_ he would finish – and was startled by the sudden realization that whoever Bobby was talking to never talked in return or asked questions; a characteristic that automatically eliminated women, children, and most hunters that Dean knew.

And Bobby just said "on the ride over," which meant...what? That Bobby had gone to pick up whoever this was in the time it had taken Dean to shower?

Dean frowned, freshly confused by this entire situation and still not hearing any sounds of movement to indicate Bobby had company in the kitchen.

Bobby cleared his throat – one of the few nervous habits he had – and shifted in his chair. "Sam's been through a lot," he finally stated, seeming to choose his words carefully. "But after everything he's been through in his life, I think that wall coming down was the worst."

Dean clenched his jaw, feeling the earlier mix of anger and betrayal return. How dare Bobby discuss Sam with this stranger?

"The memories and nightmares are bad enough," Bobby continued. "But I have to tell you, it's the seizures that worry me the most." He paused. "But I guess that's what you're here for, right?" he asked, his tone cheerful even as he sighed.

And Dean seethed. What the fuck was going on? Had Bobby hired a seizure whisperer or something?

There was a beat of silence before Bobby sighed again. Only this time it was not the sigh of man who was worried about a kid he loved; it was the sigh of a hunter who was tired of playing games and realized a fellow hunter had reached his own breaking point.

"Dean..." Bobby called, his tone implying that he had known the oldest Winchester was there all along, creeping down the stairs and eavesdropping. And that he had not only allowed it but had welcomed it – had maybe even orchestrated it somehow – as an indirect introduction to whoever was in the kitchen; as a less awkward way to confess how worried he was about their youngest; and as a preemptive apology for what he had done.

Feeling stunned – too many emotions and thoughts to process at one time – Dean stood motionless in the hall; marginally calmer than he was seconds before but still confused and pissed.

Because seriously...what the _fuck_ was going on?

"You gonna join us?" Bobby asked from the other side of the wall, though it was not a question.

And although he knew he could not stand in the hall indefinitely, Dean made no response.

"Dean..."

Dean sighed, consciously getting his shit in one bag and then rearranging his expression to reflect the appearance of an indifferent badass – one of his favorites to portray during first impressions – and rounded the corner, entering the kitchen to finally meet...

Dean blinked, coming to a halt as his eyes darted from the huge lump of black fur lying on the rug in front of the stove to Bobby sitting at the table. "What the hell is that?" he demanded, resisting the urge to point at what he least expected to see.

"A dog," Bobby replied flatly as he took another sip of his coffee.

"I can see that," Dean recovered coolly, staring at the relatively large black dog; its well-muscled body, broad, chiseled head, and moderately close hanging ears indicating its breed – Labrador. "But what the hell, Bobby?"

The older hunter stared at him blankly. "What?"

Dean made a guttural sound of frustration. "We don't have enough shit to deal with, so you decide to get a pet?"

"He's not a pet, you damned idjit," Bobby snapped as the dog lifted his head as though offended by being labeled as such.

Dean snorted. "Then what the hell is he?"

Bobby sighed – as parents often do with worked up children – and leaned forward to slide a pamphlet closer to the table's edge.

Dean's gaze lingered on the dog, then Bobby, before glancing down to the glossy tri-folded paper.

_Canine Partners for Life: Seizure Alert Dog Program_

Oh.

_Oh..._

Dean felt the frustration and anger dissipate as quickly as they came and sank into the chair opposite Bobby.

There was silence as Bobby leaned back in his chair and watched the oldest Winchester leaf through the pamphlet.

Dean's eyes swept over the narrow pages, instantly recalling how he and Bobby had spent hours on the Internet one night during that first week after the wall had tumbled; how Sam had slept nearby on the couch while he and Bobby had huddled together, squinting in the harsh light of the monitor; desperately trying to find _something_ – besides more worthless doctors and useless medications – that would help Sam and had come across a website about seizure alert dogs.

Dean and Bobby had simultaneously looked at each other – both knowing Sam loved dogs, had often begged for one as a child – and had continued their research, sensing an answer as one link had led to another. By dawn, they had watched several videos; had read numerous testimonials; and had scrolled through dozens of photos, each click of the mouse bringing them a little closer to a possible solution, to a glimmer of hope.

But then...

Dean sighed and tossed the pamphlet back on the table.

Bobby frowned. "What?"

Dean shook his head disgustedly.

Bobby's frown deepened. "What?" he repeated. "Don't you remember how we thought this would be the perfect fit for Sam?"

"Oh yeah, I remember," Dean affirmed, his tone overly casual. "I just hadn't thought about it again, since we don't have six to 18 months to spend on a waiting list. Not to mention the $20,000 it takes to get a dog like that."

Dean stared meaningfully at the older hunter.

Understanding lit in Bobby's eyes, and he chuckled. "No, we don't," he agreed. "But I called in a few favors, and it turns out a friend of a friend's cousin's nephew's wife..." Bobby shook his head; communicating the complicated intricacies of tracking down the right person "...works for that Canine Partners group up in Pennsylvania. So, I gave her a call – real sweet girl, her uncle used to be a hunter – and vaguely explained our situation. And – "

"And she sent black rover right over?" Dean interrupted, his eyes darting over to the dog that still had not moved from the rug.

Bobby paused and then nodded. "Something like that."

Dean cut his eyes at Bobby, knowing there was more to the story – there always was – but also knowing the older hunter would never reveal the rest.

Dean sighed, leaning back in his chair. "So now what?"

Bobby snorted as though Dean had asked the most obvious question. "We introduce him to Sam."

Dean shook his head.

Bobby narrowed his eyes. "Don't shake your head at me, boy. I went through a lot to get this dog, and – "

"You should have discussed it with me first, Bobby," Dean snapped. "Sam's _my_ brother."

"No one's arguin' that point," Bobby placated, freshly reminded of Dean's hair-trigger response these days to anything pertaining to Sam. "And we _did_ discuss it."

Dean made a sound of annoyance. "When? A Google search one night three or four weeks ago is _not_ a discussion, Bobby."

Bobby rolled his eyes. Why was everything – absolutely _everything_ – a battle when dealing with Winchesters? "What did you want, Dean? A damned PowerPoint presentation?"

"I want what's best for Sam!"

"So do I!"

There was silence, both hunters staring down each other from across the table until the dog yawned loudly – almost a high-pitched whine – and then sighed, its eyes never leaving the kitchen's doorway.

Dean's attention flickered to the black animal sprawled on the kitchen floor. "Are we boring you?" he asked sarcastically.

The dog did not acknowledge him.

Dean's attention darted back to Bobby. "Is he deaf?" he asked seriously.

Bobby chuckled. "No. He's ignoring you."

"Nice." Dean glanced back at the dog. "Did you miss the part about staying on my good side?"

Bobby chuckled again. Dean talking to the dog like it was a person was certainly a step in the right direction. "I wouldn't take it personally, Dean. He's been trained to only have eyes and ears for Sam, to constantly be on alert for your brother."

Dean nodded. He could relate.

"So he's not really ignoring you and me," Bobby continued, "as much as he's just waiting for Sam."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "How does he know I'm not Sam?"

"He just knows," Bobby answered simply and noticed Dean's second nod of approval, another step in the right direction. Bobby leaned forward, setting his mug on the table. "I sent off a few of Sam's things to Pennsylvania, so the dog could learn his scent. And then I think the trainers called Sam's phone at night – when I told them he would have it off – and let the dog listen to Sam's voice on the voicemail. You know, things like that..."

"Huh," Dean mused, staring at the dog and then shaking his head. "I still don't see how Blackie here is gonna do anything for Sam that I'm not already doing."

Bobby sighed. Two steps forward, three steps back. "He can sense when Sam is about to have a seizure."

"So can I," Dean retorted, looking simultaneously insulted and hurt.

"I know," Bobby agreed. "But Dean..." He paused, softening his tone. "You're not always 100% accurate."

Dean said nothing, an unidentifiable expression crossing his face before he looked away; swallowing hard as he remembered last Tuesday, when Sam had gone from fine to floundering with no warning; had been smiling and talking and laughing and then had just dropped to the floor in a full-on grand mal.

Dean swallowed again, slowing exhaling as he reined in his emotions. "He doesn't always show signs," he defended quietly, still not looking at Bobby.

"I know," Bobby agreed again, his heart freshly breaking for his boys. "But this dog doesn't look for signs. He picks up on a scent – some kind of chemical change that happens before a seizure – and he knows when Sam is going to have one even before Sam does."

There was silence.

Dean sighed, his gaze slowly meeting the older hunter's. "I don't know, Bobby," he admitted. "I just..." He shook his head. "I don't know."

Bobby nodded, understanding Dean always had trouble accepting help with Sam – always convinced the job solely belonged to him – and this was no different. For Dean, the _idea_ of a service dog was easier to accept than the sudden reality, and Bobby got that.

But...

"Dean..." Bobby called, his tone surprisingly gentle as he stared across the table. "Sam is ours, and we love him. And because we love him, we do our best to protect him and keep him safe. But son..." Bobby hesitated; always briefly reminded of the time Dean had coldly told him he was _not_ his son. "...we need help. We've been getting by alright these past few weeks, but Sam ain't gettin' any better." He paused, seeing Dean's jaw clench as moisture suddenly rimmed the younger man's eyes. "What's done is done, Dean, and we both know that wall ain't comin' back. So we gotta move on and adjust and think about what's best for Sam. And this dog is what's best. He's gonna help us do our job better." Bobby paused again, putting a harder edge into his voice. "And if you would stop being a giant pain in my ass, you'd realize that."

Dean held Bobby's gaze, feeling overwhelmed and confused and _pissed_ because he hated the helplessness either emotion caused. But he knew Bobby was right; they _did_ need help with Sam. Sam was himself most of the time – thanks to the kid's own stubborn determination to be nothing else – and when he wasn't, Dean could usually pick up on the subtle differences and respond accordingly. But sometimes – like last Tuesday – even Dean wasn't quick enough to break Sam's fall; and that was unacceptable.

Dean sighed. "Fine."

Bobby arched an eyebrow. "Fine?"

"Fine," Dean repeated. "We'll give Lassie here a whirl. But if something happens to Sam on Rin Tin Tin's watch..."

Dean didn't finish his warning, and he didn't have to; Bobby knew without having to hear it.

"Relax," Bobby advised as he stood, grimacing when his left knee popped. "Everything will be fine," he assured, taking his mug over to the sink and hoping that, for once in their lives, everything _would_ be fine.

"Well, Petey here better hope so," Dean replied, eyeing the dog who was now eyeing him. "Yeah, I'm talking to you."

Bobby chuckled and leaned against the counter. "As a Lab, I think he resents being called the names of a Collie, German Shepard, and Pit Bull."

"Fair enough," Dean allowed. "What should I call him?"

Bobby shrugged. "Beats me."

Dean frowned. "You mean you don't know the dog's name?"

"I mean he ain't got one," Bobby clarified. "Sam's gonna have to name him. It's part of the whole bonding process."

"Oh great." Dean rolled his eyes. "This dog's gonna end up with a Disney princess name or something."

Bobby laughed and shook his head as he pushed away from the counter and headed toward the back door. "Maybe not."

Dean tracked the older hunter's movement. "Where are you going?"

"Out," Bobby answered simply. "Got stuff to do in the garage."

"So, you're just gonna leave me here with this dog?"

Bobby glanced over his shoulder, looking far too pleased with himself. "He won't bite, Dean."

Dean scowled. "I'm not afraid of him, Bobby. But what the hell am I supposed to do with him? You convince me to keep a dog with no name and then leave?"

"You'll figure it out," Bobby assured, opening the back door and disappearing into the yard.

Dean snorted and shook his head. "Unbelievable," he muttered, shifting in the chair and glancing back at the dog, who was once again ignoring him. "Hey..."

The dog didn't even flinch.

Dean narrowed his eyes. "Dude, I'm talking to you."

The dog sighed and cut his eyes in Dean's direction. _Yeah?_

Dean arched an eyebrow, surprised a dog could give attitude with just a look. "Don't waste your time, dog. I'm immune to bitchface," Dean informed. "And while we're at it, let's get something else straight."

The dog lifted his head. _Alright, fine._ His ears shifted forward. _Let's hear it._

Dean paused; a little startled that he was having a conversation with a dog and that he genuinely thought the dog was not only understanding him but responding in his own way.

The dog blinked. _Well?_

Dean smiled; unexpectedly amused by the dog's expressive face and feeling some of his own resentment dissipate because of it. He sighed. "Okay, listen...I like you more than I did five minutes ago, but I still don't want you here. Sam has always been my responsibility, and I feel like you're here to do my job. And I _hate_ that. And I know you don't like me for the same reason, because you think I'll interfere with your job. But guess what?" Dean leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees as he stared into the dog's brown eyes. "We're both gonna have to suck it up and work together to watch out for Sammy." Dean paused, realizing the truth of his own words. Because at the end of the day, it wasn't about him or this dog; it was about Sam. "Deal?"

The dog stared at him for a few seconds before getting to his feet and crossing to Dean.

Dean straightened, his eyes widening slightly – a bit unnerved since this was the first time the dog had moved – and watched as the canine sat directly in front of him and placed his massive front paw on Dean's knee.

_Deal._

Dean heard it as clearly as if the dog had actually spoken it, and he smiled before nodding; relaxing a little more because this felt so natural.

Maybe Bobby had been right; maybe this dog was exactly what they needed.

_**TBC**_


	2. Chapter 2

"Okay. Well..." Dean paused, feeling strangely uncomfortable with the dog's paw still resting on his knee. He appreciated the gesture, but the moment was over. "Now that we've got that straight..." He awkwardly patted the dog's foot and was relieved when the canine took the hint.

The black Lab turned, crossed back to the rug in front of the stove, and sat down, staring at Dean expectantly.

Dean arched an eyebrow. "What?"

The dog sighed, as though dealing with humans – especially _this_ human – was a colossal pain in its ass, and then glanced up at the ceiling – holding the position for a few seconds – before looking back at Dean.

Dean glanced up as well, feeling ridiculous that he only did so because the dog did first. "No one's upstairs except Sam," he informed.

The dog blinked at the obvious statement. _I know._

Dean nodded. Of course it did. Like himself, this dog had been trained to know where Sam was at all times.

Dean glanced up again – listening intently, making sure the canine was not trying to alert him to something happening upstairs – and then looked back at the dog.

Who was continuing to stare at Dean.

Dean shook his head. "Look, I don't know what you want from me. Sam's fine. He's asleep, and I'm not waking him up just so you can meet him."

The dog tilted its head slightly and gave Dean a pitying expression; as if it was sorry Dean was such a dumbass that he could not understand what the dog wanted.

Dean snorted – simultaneously amused and annoyed – and stood; crossing to the cabinet and removing a mug – _his_ mug, the one with the Batman emblem – before reaching for the coffee pot beside the sink. Cup filled, he turned around to lean against the counter and stare at the dog, who was still staring at him – or was it staring at the mug?

"I'm Batman," Dean proclaimed proudly, lifting his cup in front of his chest.

And if it was possible, the dog rolled its eyes.

Dean laughed. "That was Sam's reaction, too," he commented, taking a sip of coffee and wondering why he felt obligated to talk to this dog; especially when he had no clue what to talk about.

There was a beat of silence.

The dog glanced up again.

Dean did the same.

And that's when he got it.

The dog was curious about Sam. It knew the kid's scent and voice and whatever few tidbits Bobby had shared, but that was all. It wanted details and knew Dean was the person to give them.

"Huh," Dean mused, once again startled by the dog's intelligence. "You wanna hear about Sam?" he asked, more for a reaction than confirmation.

The dog appeared equally startled by Dean's sudden burst of intellect and wagged its tail once. _Good boy. _

Dean chuckled. "Thanks, smartass," he replied dryly and crossed back to the table, setting his mug on the wooden surface. "Let's see..." Dean sighed, turning the chair around and sitting in it backwards; arms folded over the back as he tried to think of where to begin. It was hard describing someone you loved. "Sam's..."

The dog's ears perked up, eager to hear whatever Dean had to say.

Dean laughed self-consciously. This was harder than he thought; reducing someone he had known, loved, and protected his entire life into just a few words. So much had happened; some good, mostly bad.

But all outweighed by one enduring fact.

"Sam's a good kid who has always tried to do what he thought was right at the time, even in the most fucked up situations. And even though that's led to some pretty bad shit between us – and even worse shit for him – he's always come through it." Dean paused, a blur of memories from the past six or seven years passing through his mind. "And that's how I know he's going to come through this, too," Dean stated confidently, staring at the dog that was supposed to help make it happen.

The black Lab stared back intently, seeming to grasp the significance of Dean's words and of its role in the big picture of helping Sam cope with his latest rough patch in life.

Dean nodded his approval. "So, that being said..." He reached for his mug. "I'll go over a few basics and then we'll discuss what an average day is like around here."

Dean took a sip of coffee as the dog laid down on the rug in front of the stove, settling in to listen.

"First of all, Sam's super tall, super smart, and sometimes, super bitchy. He's prone to nightmares, so he doesn't sleep like he should. He's picky about his food, so he doesn't eat like he should. And he feels responsible for everything, so he doesn't cut himself slack like he should. He's a good listener, one of the best hunters I know, and the most genuine person you will ever meet. But more importantly than any of that..." Dean paused; making sure he had the dog's full attention. "Sam's my kid brother and is the one person I literally can't live without. I've tried too many times, and I'm not doing it again. So even though I know you have a job to do and have been trained to do it, if you hurt him or put him in danger in any way, our deal is off. Your ass will be back in Pennsylvania or wherever the hell it is you came from before you can even _lick_ your ass. Capeesh?"

The dog stared at Dean for a few seconds before blinking. _'Nough said._

"Good," Dean replied, taking another sip of coffee and then setting his mug back on the table. "So, those are the basics about Sam. The specifics about his current condition – and I'm not sure how much Bobby has already told you – is that the wall in his head that was protecting him from memories of Hell and his time as a soulless dickhead is gone."

The dog tilted its head in confusion.

"Long story," Dean summarized; not interested in reliving the whole fucking nightmare of the past two years, which culminated with the betrayal and deceit of someone he had thought he could trust; someone he had viewed as family who had broken the cardinal rule; someone who had not only hurt Sam but who had also put the kid in life-or-death danger.

Which reminded him...

Dean would have to ask Bobby later if the older hunter had any luck yet researching how to defuse the godlike power of a former angel juiced up on souls.

"Anyway..." Dean sighed. "Sam's doing much better than he was. He still has the seizures, of course; sometimes three or four a day. But he's usually awake and functioning and is the Sammy I know and love." Dean smiled softly, surprised by how unguarded he felt talking to this dog. "But sometimes..."

The dog leaned forward, seeming to sense the significance of what Dean was about to say.

Dean shifted in his chair. He hated this part. He was used to the nightmares, and he had learned to deal with the seizures; but this part...

"Sometimes, during those first few minutes when Sam is coming out of a seizure, his personality will shift into one of two versions of himself – Hell Sam or Soulless Sam – and they're pretty easy to tell apart. Because Hell Sam is not a threat; he's withdrawn and twitchy and absolutely scared to death. He'll just lay there and sometimes whisper questions until the real Sammy comes back. It's hard to watch, but no one is in any danger when Hell Sam is around. But Soulless Sam..." Dean shook his head. He fucking _hated_ that sonuvabitch. "Soulless Sam is one scary, badass mofo who's not to be fucked with."

The dog's eyes seemed to widen.

"Believe it," Dean advised. "You'll know it's that version that's resurfaced because he'll come up fighting. In fact, the first time he showed up again during that first week, he damn near kicked my ass before I realized what was going on." Dean paused, remembering that particular showdown, and then shook his head. "Soulless Sam doesn't surface as much as he used to, though. Sammy's better with talking about the time he spent soulless than he is talking about the time he was in the Cage. So I think the Soulless Sam issues are being worked out and that version is losing power – at least I hope so – while Hell Sam will probably be around for a lot longer."

The dog whined – a soft, melancholy sound – as Dean reached for his mug again.

"I know," Dean agreed, taking a sip of coffee and remembering what Sam had confided to him one night during that second week; how he had thought Sam was asleep and had actually been startled when the kid had started talking; how his brother's voice had barely been audible as they had laid in their beds in the dark and Sam had told of some of the things he had endured at the hands of Michael and Lucifer; and then had not spoken of Hell or the Cage again since.

Because, as Sam had said the one time Dean had asked the following morning, some things were beyond words.

And Dean knew his brother was right.

Some horrors could not be described, only experienced. And what Sam had experienced had, at best, left shrapnel lodged in his soul; and at worst...

Dean shook himself.

_Stop. Jesus..._

Dean sighed, the force and volume with which he did so indicating his level of annoyance with himself.

The dog tilted its head. _You okay?_

Dean nodded.

The canine gave him a dubious expression.

Dean quirked a smile. "Nothing gets by you, huh?"

The dog wagged its tail once in response to the praise.

Dean's smile widened, finding himself actually liking this dog; appreciating its tendency to pick up on subtle changes...just like a hunter.

"Anyway..." Dean sighed again and took another sip of coffee. "Not all days are like that," he assured. "Those are the bad days. The days with the three or four seizures and the personality shifts happen about twice a week. And I should probably tell you we've only had one day like that this week." Dean paused, resisting the urge to shudder at what a _bitch_ Wednesday had been. "So..." he continued, setting his mug back on the table. "...either things are looking up and we're down to just one bad day a week, or...and this is more likely...we're in for a rough Saturday." He looked at the dog. "But either way, we'll deal with it, right?"

The black Lab blinked. _Right._

"Right." Dean nodded and glanced at the stove's clock – 9:48 – and then refocused on the dog. "Okay...we have about 10 minutes before Sam wakes up, so let's go over an average day, a good day."

The dog whined again; only it was a sound of eagerness, not sadness as it was a few minutes before.

Dean smiled – seriously...the more time he spent with this dog, the more he liked it – and swept his sock-clad feet over the dusty wooden floor on either side of the chair, stretching out his legs in front of him.

The dog reminded Dean of Sam as it looked at his feet – mere inches from its face – and then cut its eyes back at Dean. _Do you mind?_

"Not at all," Dean replied cheekily and held the dog's gaze. "Now listen...a good day – like I hope today turns out to be – means Sam only has one or two seizures. They usually don't last as long as they do on the bad days. And when they're over, Hell Sam and Soulless Sam usually don't make an appearance, so we don't have to wait for Sam to transition back to himself. He may be a little disoriented and sleep afterwards, but otherwise, he's fine."

The dog stared at Dean intently, as though taking mental notes about which characteristics denoted a good day versus a bad day.

"All good days pretty much follow the same routine," Dean explained. "Sam will get up; he'll come downstairs; he'll eat what he calls breakfast – and I call crap – and then if everything seems okay, he'll take a shower. And I say 'if everything seems okay,' because if it's a bad day, Sam will have a seizure within the first hour of being awake – and then all plans and routines go to shit, and we spend the rest of the day taking one hour at a time."

The dog looked unfazed and blinked. _Go on._

Dean nodded, respecting the canine's undaunted, self-assured demeanor, and was startled by the realization that this would be a dog that John Winchester would approve of.

Dean smiled sadly – as he did every time he thought of their father – and sighed. "And I know that you sense a chemical change or whatever and don't have to rely on cues, but just so you know...if Sam starts blinking a lot or squinting or widening his eyes or doing this number..." Dean pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. "...then we've got a problem."

The black Lab blinked again. _Got it._

"But like I said..." Dean continued. "...if everything seems okay, Sam will shower and get dressed and then we'll spend the afternoon out in the yard. Bobby and I usually work on restoring the Impala – you'll meet her later – while Sam reads or hands us tools or just talks to us. Which I think he gets bored with sometimes, but to be honest, I don't care. I'm just not comfortable with him being out of my sight yet. Like if he was in here by himself and something happened..." Dean shook his head, not even wanting to think about such a scenario, and stared at the dog that was still staring at him. "But maybe you'll help us with that, huh?"

The dog wagged its tail once. _I'll try._

Dean nodded.

There was a beat of silence.

The dog blinked. _What else?_

Dean opened his mouth to speak but stopped when the ceiling groaned, indicating movement in the room above the kitchen – _their_ room.

The dog had noticed as well, and Dean smiled.

This was it.

_**TBC – So, what d'ya think? Are they in for a good day or a bad day? I can see it both ways and keep going back and forth...**_


	3. Chapter 3

"Guess who's up?" Dean asked, watching as the dog visually tracked Sam's path upstairs; the floorboards creaking under Sam's footsteps as the kid made his way from their room to the bathroom.

A door shut, and the dog looked at Dean questioningly.

"He's always been a prude," Dean informed good-naturedly. "He could be the only one in the house, and he'd still shut the door before taking a piss."

The dog stared at Dean, seeming to know that Dean was the exact opposite; that he would not only leave the bathroom door wide open for all to see but would also take a leak in the yard if the mood struck him.

"Hey. Glass houses, my friend..." Dean reminded, hearing the toilet flush and the door reopen.

"Dean?"

The black Lab wagged its tail in recognition of Sam's voice; its attention darting from the ceiling to Dean. _Is it...?_

"Yep, it's him," Dean confirmed quietly and smiled, the expression tinged with sadness.

Because this was another part of their routine these days; Sam would wake up, take care of his business, and then immediately seek out Dean. The same would happen after a seizure, minus the bathroom break. And while part of Dean was always touched that Sam sought him first – just like when they were kids – another part was troubled for the reason behind it.

"Down here," Dean called, knowing if he did not answer as quickly as Sam thought he should, his kid brother would panic.

"I thought you had left," Hell Sam had whispered to Dean more than once over the past few weeks. "He said you were gone. But please don't go. Please don't leave me."

And Dean had nodded earnestly each time; had been too overcome by the swell of emotion to have done anything else. Because Dean knew who "he" was, and although Dean had not been in the Cage, he knew how it felt to have that lie repeatedly thrown in your face in the depths of Hell; that your greatest fear had finally come true; that your brother had left, and you were alone...forever.

And although Sam had not spoken of it, Dean knew his brother harbored the same fear as Hell Sam.

_Please don't leave me._

Dean blinked as he heard Sam pad down the hall, heading towards the stairs, and then glanced at the dog as it sat up; its gaze focused on the kitchen's doorway; its ears perked and tail wagging as its body leaned slightly forward.

Dean narrowed his eyes. He knew the dog was just excited and its body language was expressing its anticipation, but he suddenly felt uneasy. Because what if this dog pounced on Sam as soon the kid came into the room? Not that it would intentionally try to hurt his brother – it seemed smarter than that – but what if out of well-meaning enthusiasm, it momentarily lost control and threw itself at Sam as a greeting?

The top step creaked as it bore Sam's weight, and Dean casually stood, snagging his mug from the table as he did so and crossing to the sink. He glanced out the window, noticing Bobby ducked under the hood of a car, and turned around to lean against the counter, still grasping his mug and effectively putting himself between the dog and Sam.

The canine glanced at him. _Dude. Relax._

"You relax," Dean retorted quietly, each of Sam's descending steps increasing his unease and sudden anxiety.

Because what if this was a bad idea? What if instead of being thrilled by the surprise and ecstatic to finally have a dog of his own, Sam was hurt and pissed that they had sprung it on him; that they had decided what was best for him without even discussing it with him first? Or worse, what if Sam was having another Wednesday and totally freaked out the second he came in the room?

Dean swallowed, wondering if it was too late to hide the dog and realized his answer when he heard Sam clear the last step.

The black Lab stood, sensing Sam's proximity and unable to sit still any longer.

"Hey. No sudden movements," Dean warned, setting his mug in the sink and pushing away from the counter, further blocking the dog's path to Sam. Because the last thing they wanted – even if Sam was having a good day – was for Sam to be startled.

The canine cut its eyes at Dean. _Seriously?_

Dean glared back. _Seriously._

The dog stared at Dean for a few seconds; the message clear – _you're a pain in my ass_ – and then sat back down on the rug, looking beyond Dean into the hall.

Dean quirked a smile – _Dean Winchester, alpha dog_ – and then turned his back on the canine seconds before Sam stopped in the kitchen's doorway.

Sam was barefoot, wearing blue sweatpants and a grey t-shirt, and his hair was sticking out in all directions as he rubbed his face with both hands and yawned. "Dean..."

Dean gave Sam a once over – everything seemed fine – and then smiled. Because no matter how old his little brother got, Sam still looked like a sleepy kid when he first woke up. "Yeah, Sammy?"

Sam stretched and yawned again, shaking his head as though he had forgotten what he was going to say; which was not unusual during these first few minutes, but still...

Dean felt his smile waver. "You okay?" he asked, watching as Sam's gaze roamed around the kitchen; knowing his brother was just trying to orient himself like he did every morning, but still feeling on edge; getting a weird déjà vu of Wednesday and not liking it one fucking bit. "Hey..."

Sam blinked, instantly focused on Dean. "What?"

"You tell me," Dean responded, his clipped tone indicating his blossoming worry. "You're the one looking a little spaced out. You with me?"

And Sam heard the underlying question – _good day or bad day?_

Sam nodded, wayward strands of hair strangely falling into place. "Yeah, I'm good," he assured. "I'm just..."

Sam's voice trailed off as his gaze shifted down and to the left, looking beyond Dean; his head tilting slightly, his eyes squinting as though he could not quite figure out what he was seeing behind his brother.

Dean held his breath and resisted the urge to turn and look at what he already knew Sam saw; not wanting to ruin the moment.

The dog stood and wagged its tail. _Hi!_

There was a beat of silence.

Sam began to shake his head, slow at first and then faster. "_No_," he stated firmly and closed his eyes. "No, no, no, no, no..."

Dean arched an eyebrow; his heart beating faster with each of Sam's repetitions, with each frantic shake of his brother's head. This was not good. "Sam..."

Sam opened his eyes, immediately looking at the dog behind Dean – the dog that Dean did not seem to know was even there since Dean had not turned around to acknowledge it – and then shook his head once more.

"Sam..."

Sam made a distressed sound low in his throat. Because he thought this was over. Why was this happening again?

Dean felt as though his heart would beat out of his chest. _Fuck, fuck, fuck!_

"Sammy..." Dean called; his eyes never leaving his brother's face; his tone gentle and cautious as if he was talking to a spooked animal.

"Dean..." Sam whispered, as though he was afraid of spooking an animal himself.

Dean frowned at the panicked tone of Sam's voice, at the expression on his face. "What?"

_Please tell me, and I'll make it better._

Because no matter how many favors Bobby had called in or how much Dean was beginning to like this dog, if Sam said he wanted the Lab gone, its ass would be out the door in the next second.

"Sam..." Dean called again. "Just tell me. What?"

"I..." Sam paused, continuing to stare beyond Dean and blinking against welling tears. "I'm sorry."

Dean's frown deepened. Of all the potential reactions he had imagined, this was not among them. Granted, tearful apologies sometimes seemed to be Sam's default setting these days, but still...what the hell?

Dean shook his head. "Sorry for what, Sam?"

Sam's attention flickered to the dog. _Go away!_

The canine tilted its head. _Why? What's wrong?_

Sam blinked. Did the dog just somehow respond to him? That was...unusual.

Sam glanced back at Dean. "I think maybe it _is_ a bad day," he confessed quietly in that broken tone he did so well. "And I'm..." He swallowed. "I'm sorry..."

Because they all knew how rough Wednesday had been, and now it seemed it was happening all over again. Not that Sam could remember any specifics. But he knew if there was a day he could not remember – like Wednesday – it was because he had not been present for most of it. The other versions of himself had taken turns surfacing, and although Dean had assured him everything was okay, Sam could only imagine what they had done or said during their visits to his reality.

And Sam _hated_ it. He hated the memories and nightmares and hallucinations. He hated the seizures. He hated the personality shifts and feeling like although he had supposedly put himself back together, he was still scattered and out of control.

But most of all, Sam hated the burden he had become to Dean and Bobby. He knew they would never say that – would probably never even _think_ that – but fuck! They deserved a day when they did not have to worry about Sam; when they did not have to drop everything because Sam was having a bad day; when they did not have to constantly remind Sam that everything he thought he saw was not necessarily real.

Like today...

Sam glanced at the dog still standing on the rug behind Dean and then closed his eyes, lifting his hands to either side of his head. _Not real. Not real. Not real..._

Dean watched in dread as Sam turned inward, closing himself off as he often did on bad days.

The black Lab whined, sensing Sam's obvious distress, and nudged Dean's hand. _Do something!_

Dean jerked away from the cold, wet nose and glared heatedly. He did not need a dog to instruct him on how to handle his brother, especially when it seemed the canine was the reason Sam was upset.

"Sammy..." Dean closed the gap between himself and his brother and carefully grasped the kid's wrists, lowering Sam's hands from his head. "Hey..." He lightly rubbed Sam's arm. "Look at me."

Sam swallowed but did nothing else.

The dog whined again.

Dean cut his eyes in the direction of the noise – _I got this_ – and silently snarled – _so shut the fuck up. _

The dog's eyes seemed to widened, but it sat down without another sound; its gaze solely on Sam.

Dean sighed, surprised by how shaky he felt; by how unprepared he was for Sam's meltdown. And that was inexcusable, because now more than ever – when Sam could go from perfectly fine to seriously fucked in less than a breath – Dean had to be ready for anything.

Dean stared at his brother, knowing if he could reestablish eye contact, he would have a chance at bringing Sam back. But the longer Sam's eyes stayed closed, the further away he drifted...and the worse their day got.

"Sam..." Dean called, gently squeezing his brother's shoulder. "C'mon, man. Look at me, huh?"

A few seconds passed before Sam inhaled shakily and did as he was asked.

There was a beat of silence.

Dean smiled encouragingly. "Hey."

Sam offered a watery smile in return. "Hey."

Dean's smile broadened, feeling some of his own anxiety dissipate. This was definitely progress. "I think you left me for a minute..." he reported casually. "You with me now?"

Sam hesitated, his gaze once again shifting to the dog. Why was it still there? He had told himself it was not real – and he _believed_ it – so why was it still there?

"Sam?" Dean prompted. "You okay?"

Sam glanced back at Dean, fresh tears brimming as he shook his head.

Dean nodded. No surprise there. "It's okay," he soothed automatically. "Just talk to me."

Because Sam was remarkably honest these days. If he was able, he would tell Dean what he felt or saw or heard, and Dean would either confirm or negate accordingly. Sam would usually take a few minutes to internalize the information – to block out the hallucination and to ground himself in reality – and then they would move on with their lives.

In fact lately, Dean had noticed Sam doing the whole process for himself; staring at a particular space in the room or tilting his head as though he heard something and then closing his eyes, as if to convince himself that whatever it was, it was not real. Much like he had just done...

Dean blinked.

Wait.

Turning slightly, Dean glanced at the dog that was alternately looking at him and staring at Sam.

_Wait..._

Relief spread through Dean's chest as he suddenly realized exactly what was going on here; Sam was upset because he thought the dog was just another hallucination. Sam had not seen Dean acknowledge the canine in any way, so the kid had figured it was not really there. Because Sam was so used to second-guessing himself these days, he did not trust what he saw – especially if it was out of the ordinary...like a dog in Bobby's kitchen – and just automatically assumed it was not real.

And if Sam thought he was hallucinating within minutes of being awake, then no wonder the kid was upset; no wonder he was predicting another Wednesday and was thus shutting down.

Dean shook his head, his heart freshly breaking for his brother. _Ah, Sammy..._

"It's still there," Sam quietly informed, as if Dean had asked him a question. "I know it's not real." His confusion and distress were still evident in his tone. "So, why is it still there?"

"What's still there, Sam?" Dean asked patiently, confident he knew but wanting to make sure Sam was not seeing something else besides the dog.

An expression of panicked humiliation crossed Sam's face – because this was another part he hated – and he wondered, not for the first time, if Dean thought he was crazy. "A dog," he whispered and then swallowed. "I see a dog behind you."

Which sounded like a line from either a children's book or a horror movie, and Sam laughed humorlessly before closing his eyes again. Because he did not want to be crazy; he did not want to be a burden; and he did not want to endure another bad day that he would not even remember tomorrow.

"It's okay," Dean soothed, knowing what Sam was thinking, and glanced behind him.

The dog tilted its head – first one way, then the other – and looked at Dean. _What the fuck is going on?_

Dean quirked a smile – because only their dog would drop the f-bomb – and shook his head. _Just another day in the Winchester life..._

The canine sighed.

Dean did the same, feeling his heart constrict; because he could always steel himself against anyone's pain, anyone's tears...except Sam's

And enough was enough. Sam was supposed to be happy, not further traumatized by this experience.

"Sammy..." Dean called, lightly rubbing his brother's arm again.

Sam exhaled shakily and opened his eyes, lashes wet. "Dean, I..."

Dean shook his head to silence his brother. "Listen to me. First of all, you are _not_ crazy. And if I catch you thinking that again, I'll kick your ass. You hear me?"

The corner of Sam's mouth twitched as he sniffled – trying to pull himself together – and nodded.

"Second of all..." Dean continued, making sure Sam was looking at him. "You are not now – and never have been – a burden. Am I makin' myself clear?"

Sam gave a small smile at Dean's tough love approach and nodded again, feeling himself calm as his brother's voice washed over him.

"And third of all...I don't think you're having a bad day, Sammy. 'Cause what you're seeing is real," Dean assured and then paused, allowing his words to take hold. "There _is_ a dog behind me."

There was silence.

Sam swallowed, his gaze flickering between Dean and the dog. "You see the dog?"

Dean smiled. "Yep."

Sam's gaze flickered again. "Really?"

Dean's smile widened. "Really."

As if sensing its cue, the black Lab got to its feet and came to stand beside Dean as it wagged its tail. _Hi again!_

Sam's eyes swept over the dog, feeling himself relax as he continued to stare; because if Dean said it was real, it was real.

There was more silence.

Dean frowned, never liking it when his brother was too quiet. "Sam?"

"I'm okay," Sam instantly assured, knowing Dean was as on edge as he had been. "But man..." He exhaled a shaky breath and laughed nervously. "It really freaked me out for a minute..."

Dean snorted good-naturedly. "Yeah, I noticed. And for what it's worth..." He glanced at the dog. "...you were kinda freaking us out, too."

Sam smiled shyly and ducked his head. "Sorry."

Dean shrugged. "No big deal," he replied, knowing Sam needed to hear it. "If you're good, I'm good."

The dog whined and wagged its tail once. _Me, too._

Sam nodded – _I'm good_ – and smiled as he glanced at the dog. "He seems nice," he commented, holding out his hand toward the canine.

The black Lab glanced up at Dean. _Okay?_

Dean nodded, strangely grateful that the dog had asked his permission.

The dog cautiously stepped forward. _Please don't freak out..._

Sam laughed as the dog slowly approached. "He's funny."

"Yeah, he's a riot," Dean replied dryly even as he grinned; because _this_ was how it was supposed to happen; Sam smiling and laughing, his distress of seconds before soothed and forgotten.

Sam beamed as the dog came to stand in front of him. "Hey, buddy," he greeted, holding his hand out further.

The dog sniffed Sam's fingers and wagged its tail – because _this_ was the scent it had been trained to know – and then gently nuzzled Sam's palm. _Hey, yourself._

Dean watched the interaction, feeling uncharacteristically sappy. "You like him, Sammy?"

"Of course I do," Sam answered, all at once sitting on the floor; his long legs stretched out in front of him as the canine came closer. "I've always liked dogs."

"I know," Dean agreed and smiled as the dog sniffed the length of Sam's arm, up to his neck, and then sat, facing Sam and licking the kid's face.

Sam laughed, swiping his hand across his cheek, and then reached to scratch the dog's ears. "But..." Sam shook his head, his forehead wrinkling in confusion. "I don't understand." He looked up at Dean. "Why is there a dog here? Is it a stray or something?"

"No," Dean replied and eased himself down to sit on the floor opposite his brother, their legs brushing as he situated himself. "And I don't know why the hell we're sitting on the floor when we have perfectly good chairs," he groused, though there was no heat to his words.

"Then sit in a chair," Sam responded, glancing across at Dean and scratching the dog's ears a little harder when the canine leaned into his touch.

"Nah." Dean shook his head and then grimaced as he once again shifted, trying to get comfortable. "I'm good."

Sam quirked a smile knowingly; because Dean would gladly sit on the floor – or anywhere else – as long as he was close to Sam, as long as Sam was okay. And Sam hoped his brother knew how much that meant to him – especially these days – and how it went both ways; that Sam would do anything for Dean, too.

Dean watched his brother watching him and nodded. _I know, Sammy._

Sam nodded as well – _good_ – and then blinked, realizing he had stopped scratching the dog's ears when the canine licked his hand.

The black Lab sighed, seeming to know this scenario would happen a lot – the brothers momentarily ignoring it as they focused on each other – and strangely enough, it understood.

"Sorry," Sam apologized, rubbing the dog's broad head.

The canine licked Sam's hand again – _it's okay_ – and then turned in a circle before lying down between the brothers; its back to Dean so it could keep its eyes on Sam.

"So," Sam sighed, glancing at Dean. "If the dog is not a stray, then is Bobby taking care of it for a neighbor or something?"

"No."

Sam paused. "It's not Bobby's, is it?"

"Of course not," Dean scoffed. "Bobby's more of a Poodle man."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Dean."

"And I think he used to carry a Chihuahua in a man purse."

The dog glanced over its shoulder, seeming to glare at Dean. _Quit dicking around and tell him._

Dean laughed, actually glad to be in the line of fire of two bitchfaces and wondering if the dog really had a potty-mouth or if it was just his own interpretation.

"You done?" Sam asked dryly.

Dean laughed again – _I love you, Sammy...never change_ – and then shrugged.

Sam sighed – half because he was annoyed and half because Dean expected him to – and then rephrased his question. "So, does the dog belong to Bobby or not?"

Dean shook his head, his smile lingering. "No. Bobby's the one that got the dog and brought it here to stay, but it doesn't belong to him."

Sam frowned. "That doesn't make sense."

"Of course it does," Dean countered.

"If the dog is staying here, then it has to belong to someone," Sam argued. "So if it doesn't belong to Bobby, then who does it belong to?"

"You," Dean answered simply and then waited for his brother's reaction.

There was silence.

Dean and the dog watched as Sam's gaze once again flickered between them.

The dog glanced back at Dean. _Is he okay?_

Dean nodded. _Just give him a minute._

Then there was more silence.

"Dude, say something!" Dean blurted, knowing Sam was just shocked – not freaked – but still a bit unnerved by his brother's silence.

Sam laughed in that nervous, shy way he often did when he was happy but was too surprised and overwhelmed to know what to say.

Dean chuckled. "Speechless?"

Sam smiled, dimples and all. "Yeah, I guess. I just..." He shook his head in amazement. "I don't know what to say."

"Which is the definition of 'speechless'..." Dean commented in a scholarly tone and smiled when Sam sent a weak glare in his direction.

"Shut up, Dean," Sam retorted and laughed.

Dean smiled, wishing he could bottle this feeling, this moment. "Do you like him?"

"I love him," Sam immediately responded, reaching toward the dog – _his_ dog – once again.

The dog wagged its tail and licked Sam's hand. _Back at you._

Sam continued to smile, his cheeks beginning to hurt from the intensity of the expression. "I still don't get it, though," he commented. "I mean...I love him…" – _and I love you for doing this_ – "...but why are you giving me a dog?"

Dean felt his smile waver a bit as a wave of panic washed over him; because what if the reason somehow diminished Sam's excitement? "We'll get to that..." he evaded and knew Sam realized what he was doing when his brother narrowed his eyes.

"We'll get to that?" Sam repeated skeptically. He paused, his smile fading as dread crept up his spine. "Dean..."

"It's okay," Dean soothed, his panic marginally increasing now that Sam was no longer smiling. "It's nothing bad."

"Then tell me," Sam demanded, shifting where he sat on the floor and looking a little panicked himself.

The dog whined softly and nudged Sam's hand. _Don't get upset again._

Sam smiled weakly and patted the canine's head. "Dean, tell me."

"I will tell you," Dean assured calmly. "We'll discuss it and read the pamphlet and – "

"Pamphlet?" Sam interrupted, looking even more confused. "The dog came with a pamphlet?"

"It's more than kids come with," Dean joked lamely and swallowed as Sam continued to stare at him. "Sam...relax, okay? This dog is gonna be good for you...good for _us..._"

The black Lab glanced over its shoulder at Dean, and if it was possible for a dog to look cheeky, it did. _You _do_ care._

Dean glared. _Shut up._

Sam arched an eyebrow and felt his smile return, amused at the interaction between his brother and the dog.

Dean sighed. "Listen...we have all day to talk about this – and we will – but first, there's something you need to do."

Sam narrowed his eyes. "What?"

"Name this dog, so I can stop referring to it as 'it' in my mind."

The canine made a sound low in its throat, cutting its eyes in Dean's direction. _Wanna know what I call you, jackass?_

Dean quirked a smile. He really was beginning to love this dog.

Sam's forehead wrinkled. "It doesn't have a name?"

"Not yet. So name it..." Dean looked at Sam meaningfully. "And remember it's a _boy_, so no Disney princess names or whatever..."

Sam bitchfaced his brother.

And Dean laughed. "Just sayin', Sammy..."

Sam sighed, not even bothering to answer, and stared intently at the dog.

Who stared intently back.

Dean shifted from where sat on the floor, feeling ridiculously anxious about this naming issue. It would be just like Sam to name the dog after a poet or something equally emo. And while he guessed that was fine – because it _was_ Sam's dog – Dean really wanted the canine to have a cool name, something Dean would not be embarrassed to call in public.

Sam glanced at his brother, suppressing a smile at the expression on Dean's face. Just for fun, Sam thought about naming the dog "Whitman" or "Emerson" because he knew Dean expected as much. Or maybe he would call the dog "Jack" as in "blackjack" because the Lab was black and that was one of Sam's favorite games to play online. Or maybe "Chance" because what were the chances that, after all these years, he would finally have a dog? Or maybe the dog should be named "Hunter" to honor what they used to do; what they would eventually return to doing.

Sam sighed. This was harder than he thought.

Dean shifted again on the floor – his back beginning to cramp – and resisted the urge to offer ideas.

The dog yawned and rested its head on Sam's leg.

Sam smiled and rubbed the dog's head, glancing again at Dean. Whatever he named the Lab needed to be something as equally awesome and badass as the person that gave it to him; something that would somehow honor Dean; something that Dean would like and would instantly recognize as a tribute.

So...

The Impala...pie...chicks...guns...music...

Sam blinked.

_Music._ Like...

Sam smiled and looked at Dean. It was perfect.

Dean arched an eyebrow. He was afraid to ask, but... "What?"

"Zepp," Sam replied, beaming. "The dog's name is Zepp."

The canine lifted its head.

"Zepp?" Dean repeated and shook his head. "What the hell is a 'Zepp'?"

The dog blinked. _Yeah, what he said._

Sam laughed. "Short for 'zeppelin'," he explained.

"Like Led Zeppelin?" Dean clarified, because that was the only zeppelin he knew.

Sam nodded. "Yeah."

Dean shook his head again, still confused. "But why? That's _my_ favorite band, not yours."

"I know," Sam answered simply and held his brother's gaze.

Understanding lit in Dean's eyes, and he swallowed against the emotion suddenly lodged in his throat before slowly shaking his head, always amazed by his little brother. _Ah, Sammy..._

Sam scrunched his face at Dean's expression. "What?"

"Nothing, just..." Dean shook his head again. "You sure?"

"I'm sure," Sam responded and felt warmth spread through his chest; because making Dean happy always made Sam happy, too.

Dean smiled. _Thanks, Sammy._

Sam nodded – _you're welcome_ – and glanced down at the dog before looking back at Dean – _thank _you.

Dean also nodded – _you're welcome_ – and wondered if Sam knew how much he loved him, how much he loved seeing him happy.

There was a beat of silence.

"So," Sam sighed, ending the moment before Dean got uncomfortable. "Is 'Zepp' a name you can live with?"

Dean chuckled. "It is."

Sam glanced at the dog again. "How 'bout you, Zepp? Do you like your name?"

The black Lab wagged its tail – _not bad_ – and licked Sam's hand.

"I think Zepp approves," Dean commented, surprised by how much better he felt now that he could call the dog by an actual name.

"I think so, too," Sam agreed, placing his hands on either side of Zepp's head and vigorously scratching behind both of the dog's ears.

Zepp wagged his tail and playfully nipped back at Sam as he pawed Sam's leg.

"And you know..." Sam paused, making sure Dean was looking at him. "Zepp isn't just my dog. He's ours."

Dean blinked. "But I haven't even told you why Zepp's here," he reminded.

"Doesn't matter," Sam countered. "He's still ours, not just mine."

Dean smiled affectionately and nodded – because it was just like Sam to share whatever he had with Dean – and watched as Sam continued to rough-house with Zepp on the dusty wooden floor of Bobby's kitchen.

They sat in companionable silence across from each other for several minutes until Dean sighed, feeling a strange mix of happiness and peace as he continued to watch his brother and their dog.

"This is gonna be a good day," Dean proclaimed – because it just _had_ to be – and smiled when Sam looked over at him.

Sam grinned in response, his dimples making another appearance. "It already is."

* * *

><p><em><strong>FIN<strong>_

_**I have plans to develop a 'verse with the boys and Zepp, so stay tuned for future stories.**_


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